Bleeding Hearts
by Lia Kada
Summary: Wincest one-shot that takes place sometime around 2x10 - 2x15. Sam is (unsuccessfully) trying to come to terms with the fact that he might turn into something he's not. Dean hates seeing his baby brother like this.


Dean hears Sam whimpering sometimes, at 3 in the morning, when the sky is an eerie dark-orange, and neither of them can sleep, but for the other's sake, they pretend to. Only Sam can't pretend as well as his older brother, who's done it for years, who was practically trained in the art of pretending to be okay for the sake of someone you love.

Dean keeps a straight face while his insides writhe with fear, while his heart aches for his baby brother. And Sam - he cries, muffled sobs, his whole body shaking, heaving into the cheap motel mattress.

In the morning, they both try to forget the night. They try to forget a lot of things, thinking that disregarding the truth will make life easier. But it doesn't, and they soon learn there are some late-night feelings that don't disappear when the sun rises.

There are permanent feelings that seep in their souls, only growing stronger with the passing of time. There are clandestine feelings, secrets that itch in their throats but dissipate before rising too far above, becoming too unsafe - and so they fester within, and wait.

Dean knows it's stupid, the whole "daytime means safety" act they keep up. And he also knows that as soon as the sun sets, as soon as the two of them lay down to rest for the night, as soon as his eyes shut, Sam will start to cry again.

On a particularly cold and hopeless night, Sam cries softly at first, testing the waters, making sure Dean is at least feigning sleep; it makes him feel better, less exposed, he's not sure why. And then he buries his face into a hard pillow that smells strongly of chemicals and he cries until the tears and mucus disgust him too much, and then he tiptoes to the bathroom - so as to not wake his big brother up from his fake slumber - and lets the shower water run so cold it hurts. He rubs himself all over under the water until his skin is splotched red, trying to rub whatever curse he has off of him, to rip himself away from the frightening destiny he's sure is awaiting him.

He's naked, and he's vulnerable, and he thinks he's done crying but he isn't. He returns to his bed, the same as before, only quavering uncontrollably now, part from cold and part from fear and part from sadness and part from anger. Oh, and he hates himself a lot more after. A lot more.

He hates himself for even imagining what he might end up doing to Dean. He hates the world - the yellow-eyed demon, his father, whatever higher power could be to blame - for even creating a circumstance in which he could cause pain to the one person he cares about most.

Because deep down, he knows he'd rather kill himself than hurt Dean. And deep down, he knows he's afraid to die.

But he'd die for his brother, and he's sure of it, and he also sure that his brother would die for him, and he can't stand the thought, the scary nighttime thought that torments him endlessly.

A poignant, painful sob leaks from Sam's trembling mouth, and though it's pressed into his pillow, it demands to be heard. And it sounds a hell of a lot like his brother's name.

Sam curses himself for this indiscretion, pressing his head into his cold, clammy hands and trying desperately to disappear. He's transported to his childhood, to his rare, wonderfully naive days of classic childhood egoism when he was convinced that if he couldn't see the world, the world couldn't see him. His hands cover his eyes and everything is blissfully and terribly black.

He's lost in his own desperate and delirious unhappiness for an immeasurable amount of time until he's interrupted by a single fleeting touch, a soft brush that sends ripples of warmth throughout his body, centered at his exposed and soaking-wet back.

Sam exhales sharply in surprise and turns his head away from his hands just enough to see Dean lying next to him, on his side, his fingers just barely touching Sam's back, arm almost draped around him but not quite. Dean's look is indecipherable save a hint of trepidation and skillfully hid sorrow. And there's something else, and Sam knows what it is, because he's seen it in himself.

Sam opens his mouth to explain himself or to try to pretend he's fine or to make some excuse that Dean would see right through anyway.

"Shhh," Dean purrs softly and reassuringly, slowly resting his arm on his brother's back and continuing his gentle strokes. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. You know that, right?"

Sam jerks abruptly onto his side so that he's facing his brother. He's shameful, he thinks, too pathetic to deserve love from someone as completely loyal and loving as Dean. He almost can't face him, but he needs to get the words out. They've been bubbling in him for far too long, searing him like boiling acid.

"No, Dean, it's not, okay? And I don't _deserve_ for things to be okay. I'm going to be a murderer. I might as well die right now," he says, voice cracking between sobs he tries to contain. "It's so weird to think… I'm fighting evil now, but who knows how long it'll be before I become - before I'm the evil thing that has to be fought, that has to be destroyed? It's just a weird thought, isn't it?"

Sam laughs. Dean doesn't.

"I'm not going to let that happen. Hell, Sam, I'm wanted by the FBI. I'm not even supposed to be alive. You sort of have to be the good one between the two of us. And you're not going to die, I don't care what you think," Dean declares. He thinks he can hide the shakiness in his voice, thinks he can be strong enough for the two of them. "I _don't - care_!"

A fresh, hot tear drip-drops from Sam's eye. And another, and another.

"I hate crying," he mumbles, voice thick with humiliation.

Dean lifts his hand and delicately wipes away the tears staining Sam's once-youthful visage. He seems to have aged ten years in a matter of weeks.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says in quiet wisps of hot breath. "For everything. I know... At some point in the future, when I'm not me anymore, you're still gonna love me-"

"Hey. No son of a bitch demon is gonna get a chance to do that to you in the first place," Dean interrupts gruffly before his voice becomes softer. "You'll always be just who you are, Sammy. The annoying, nerdy, pain-in-my-ass that I can't live without."

Despite himself, Sam smiles - weakly, but honestly. And Dean notices and mirrors it instinctively. When his brother's okay, then Dean has permission to be okay. And that's just how it is.

"You really do love me. You never tell me, but I know," Sam whispers. He'd never say this in the daylight.

Dean blushes and hopes it isn't visible in the dark motel room but it is. Sam slowly raises a trembling hand to Dean's warm face and rests it there, tenderly cupping his cheek.

They stare at each other, hearts beating in unison, each searching for something in the other's eyes. Permission, direction, assurance; anything to signal to them what to do in a situation like this.

It comes in the form of the sudden brush of Dean's lips against Sam's, unable to resist the purest form of love he's ever experienced. The burning-hot collision lasts for a perfect moment until reality sets in and Dean pulls away and curses under his breath - "_shitfuckdamnitsonofabitchohG od_" - and apologizes, only deep down he's not really sorry because he knows that whatever just happened, it felt _right_.

"Shhh." It's Sam's turn to mollify Dean. He curves his lips into a smile, and presses them urgently to his brother's, deepening what Dean had started.

Dean's hand slides across Sam's back and chest, causing chills to shoot up the latter's damp body, and tightly cradles his baby brother until their hips push together and legs intertwine.

Alone, they have only self-hatred and regrets. But together, together they feel better. Together they feel beautiful.

Dean slips his tongue into Sam's mouth, tracing gently until he elicits a soft moan from him. Sam's lanky fingers move down to Dean's navel and slide underneath his shirt, drawing patterns on his hot skin until he feels something stiffen against his thigh.

"Ah, shit, Sammy," Dean murmurs into his brother's ear. "I love you, you know that? Of course you know that. And we're always gonna be just like this, together, and I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you. Not if I can help it. Tell me you fucking know that. That I love you, and you're not gonna change, not for the worse, not ever."

Sam plants a tender kiss to Dean's cheekbone, tantalizingly grazes Dean's hip with his fingers.

"I fucking know that. I always have," Sam answers softly, and contentedly connects his lips to Dean's once more.


End file.
